


Misplaced Retribution

by CatherineFox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski are Siblings, Lord Derek Hale, Lord Stiles Stilinski, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2020-06-29 14:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineFox/pseuds/CatherineFox
Summary: Hello everyone!Ages since I have written! Please tear this apart in the comments if it doesn't work.Enjoy!





	1. His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Ages since I have written! Please tear this apart in the comments if it doesn't work. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The Stalinski's estate was overflown with eligible Lords and Ladies from far and wide, accompanied by their glamorous wives and husbands, in character and at their best behaviour, all endeavouring to capture the heart of the newest debutant in society. The young Lord Stalinski, to whom most were drawn primarily by the exquisite connections to be brought into the marriage, as much as they were by the illustrious fifty thousand pounds a year. It was a well-known fact the Stilinski’s were one of the wealthiest families in the country, and after the father’s passing, the gossip circles enthusiastically noted the way into the family was the then-soon-to-be-introduced gentleman, as the elder brother was much of an untamable ladies’ man and known to had broken many a young hearts. It was only a hope that the younger one would not carry the elder's predispositions, as it would be a shame to lose the chance of grasping ahold of a rich, well-connected man; or, so spoke every mother to her daughters.  
  
The older Lord Stuart Stilinski had spared no expense to make the occasion the most memorable of the year. The vast decorations, their sheer expensiveness; the servers and their sleek looks, sharpened expressions and eagerness to please could only mean they were promised a substantial reward if the night went by with no incident.  
  
Lord Derek Hale was initially shocked to have received an invitation and had contemplated not making an appearance. After giving the matter a second thought, as the whole of the highest society was to be gathered, he grew aware his absence would not remain undetected. Since Laura had had to remain with Cora at home and was not attending the assembly, Derek had allowed her to fuss over his appearance to a point where he could barely wait to leave the house. Derek observed the spectacle unfolding before his eyes with distaste, fully readied to take the entirety of the following day to recover from the unpleasantness of the evening. He never enjoyed social gatherings, they were Laura's forte, but with Kira unwell, he had been left to his own devices and without a companion who could properly entertain him. As the evening progressed, his mind wandered to a dark corner he had specially dedicated to the bastard who ruined his sister and he nodded in response to greetings, whilst thinking of just how he could bring about Lord Stuart's demise. If there was a way, to make the man hurt even a little, Derek would take it without a doubt.

  
***  


Lord Mieczysław Stilinski descended the stairs by his brother’s side, shoulders pushed back, chin held high and back as straight as an arrow. The buzz in the room quelled upon their entry and Lord Stuart’s closest friends rushed to their side for a formal introduction. Derek’s gaze was fixed on the younger man, flickering over the man’s face, along the distinct moles, over his carefree smile and settled on his lively eyes. Not difficult at all, he thought to himself.  
  
Lord Mieczysław appeared enraptured by the obvious peacocking around him, yet Derek still felt drawn to the man. He enjoyed the glide in his step, the countenance with which he spoke to everyone - addressing everyone as equal, the elegance in his dancing even when his partners were less than capable. The brightness of the man's smile stirred Derek's heartstrings, lighting up in him a desire to smile. A shame the man in question had a despicable brother.  
  
When whiskey-coloured eyes rose from their partner, skimmed the dancefloor and landed on Derek, his breath caught. Derek felt rooted to his current spot by the intensity of the gaze, along with the challenge said gaze held.  
  
“I cannot believe Stuart is doing this quite so soon after his father’s death,” a whisper on Derek’s right noted, pulling him away from his swirling thoughts. Derek would have been inclined to chastise the man if he had not sounded concerned. And, in Derek's opinion, quite right. The man had passed away but a few months ago, but neither of the Stilinskis seemed grief-stricken at the moment.  
  
“Hush, Scott,” a female voice joined. Derek identified the companion as Lady Allison Argent and his neck snapped in the direction of the conversation. “It was Stiles’ decision, as well.” Before Derek could turn away, the Lady in question discovered his imposition upon their conversation.  
  
“Yes, but still,” Scott began, but a firm grip on his forearm, inflicted by Lady Allison Argent herself, prevented him and his eyes flickered in her direction, before following her gaze to Derek’s own.  
“Lord Hale,” Lady Allison spoke, bowing her head lightly. “Good to see you again.”  
  
“Likewise, my Lady,” he returned. He kissed the offered palm. “I am sorry to have pried at your conversation.”  
  
“Nonsense,” she dismissed the comment, “We were ill-placed to conduct such a conversation in the first place. If I am honest, Lord Hale, I am glad it was you who heard us. Your discretion I can count on, I am sure.” She wove her arm around the gentleman’s standing by her side.  
  
“Of course,” Derek affirmed.  
  
“May I introduce Lord Scott McCall, my fiancé and a dear friend of the debutant?” She addressed the dark-haired man a private smile, before proceeding, “Scott, this is Lord Derek Hale, Lord Peter’s nephew.”  
  
“An honour, Lord McCall.”  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
The conversation was doomed to meet an awkward end, until in a hurry of flailing limbs, rarely perceived at assemblies of this import, their group was interrupted by Lord Mieczysław’s arrival.  
“If I have to dance with Lord Whittemore again this evening, I am going to gouge my eyes out before the whole room.” His eyes beamed with mischief, as he grinned at Lord McCall and Lady Argent. He had yet to take note of Derek’s presence. Derek used the advantage to closer observe the young man. His bearing was more relaxed compared to earlier in the evening, when he had been standing by his brother. Few strands of his hair were sticking to the side, proving the lordship an enthusiastic dance partner.  
  
“I doubt your brother would approve of such an outburst,” Allison provided, efficiently stripping the smile of the young Lord’s expression. “Allow me to introduce Lord Derek Hale. Lord Hale, this is Lord Mieczysław Stilinski.”  
  
Both men bowed. A smirk grew on the young Lord's lips. It was Derek, holding the liquid gold of Stiles’ eyes, who first spoke, “It is an honour to make your acquaintance, my Lord.”  
  
The man’s eyes narrowed at him. “Yes, well, I have heard that plenty this evening.”  
  
Lady Argent gasped at the impertinence, whilst Lord McCall hissed, “Stiles!”  
  
Derek stubble was at least covering his flushed cheeks. “It’s quite alright. Lord Stilinski has been at the receiving end of such comments for the past hour, I am sure he must be quite bored of them by now.” If Laura had heard him, she would be astonished at his forming a sentence longer than his usual half dozen words of response. He bowed to the group, a vile pain gripping his chest. “If you will excuse me, I am in need of fresh air.”  
  


***  


The night was bright. A full moon was lighting the garden's path, shading the trees in a misty silver which Derek was sure would be breathtaking to many, but in him, it stirred nothing. His temples were pounding as was usual for after a long afternoon of meetings, but this time it was due to the dangerous thought which lurked just between the line of malice and sanity and he knew not whether to embrace it.  
  
Hands clasped behind his back, he stumbled between the rows of trees and bushes. Sometime later he found himself at the entrance of a labyrinth. He'd loved the idea of being hidden between a maze of green once. Derek's memory of the last time he'd spent a day enjoying the peaceful shadows is blurry, leaving him dumbfounded at the realization he'd stopped enjoying one of the things he loved the most and he to the bargain was unaware of it.  
  
Derek gazed into the darkness ahead, took a step forward, only to have a voice interrupt him, “Lurking, are we, Lord Hale?”  
  
Derek refused to admit he startled at Lord Stalinski's voice. He only hoped the younger man had not taken notice of the sudden rigidness in his back. “I could ask the same of you, Lord Stilinski.” He shifted on his feet, turned to face the man of the evening, and confessed, “I was remembering times when labyrinths had a way of charming me within with their quell.” He approached the younger man until he could discern every line on the moonlight. “What are you doing away from your party? You will be missed.”  
  
Lord Mieczysław, Stiles, stepped past him and inside the maze. “I might be, I suppose. Though many seem to be more interested in making the acquaintance of my brother than listen to what I have to say.” The man hummed to himself. “Though, in all fairness, I do tend to ramble on occasion.”  
  
“He is a well-connected Lord, one of the richest in the country,” Derek supplied. “Many will always prowl at everything at their disposal to be introduced to him.”  
  
“And, yet you, Lord Hale, do not suffer from the same necessity.”  
  
Derek smirked. “I prefer a rambler.” The small, halfway-aborted giggle the young Lord let out had Derek grin into the darkness. They remained quiet, walking between the tall walls, listening to the chirping birds. Lord Hale glanced at his companion once or twice, with wonder as to how the younger man managed to make him so at ease, to converse without a semblance of tension, which he usually carried with him.  
  
“Tell me, Lord Hale. You don't much enjoy the party?”  
  
Derek hummed. “What makes you say that?” Intrigued, he sought out the other man's gaze, held it until the need to surge forward and seal his mouth over those innocent lips grew too heavy.  
  
“Your eyebrows growl at those who greet you.” Lord Stilinski stated.  
  
Growled?! Derek mused. “Are you inebriated, my Lord?”  
  
“Quite sober, I assure you. You have not noticed then, how when you frown people seem frightened by you.” Another statement.  
  
Stiles' tongue slid over his lower lip. Derek was sure the man was unaware of the provocativeness of the action, but nevertheless, his manhood stirred in his breeches at the thought of pressing the man against the closest surface and having his way. Derek shook off the lust-addled daze. “We should head back. You go ahead, I will follow after the proper amount of time has passed.”  
  
The young Stilinski extended his hand. Derek reached out and took it. Even though the two layers of gloves, he felt the warmth of Stiles' touch. Either he knew how to mask his expression or the younger man was unaware of the effect he had on Lord Hale.  
  
“I had a pleasant time with you tonight, Lord Hale.”  
  
Derek bowed, placed his lips over Stiles' hand, the silky glove-soft - as Derek suspected Stiles' skin would be. “As did I.”  
  


***

Later that night, as Derek undressed in his room, sank into his bed and took himself in hand, gasping at the image of Stiles' flushed cheeks and parted, wet lips, the same dark thoughts surged anew. Flared in intensity, more persuasive than they'd ever been before. When he met his release, with the young Lord's name echoing over his empty bed, Derek knew what had to be done.  



	2. His Soul

Scott had insisted for Stiles to be their chaperone. And, Stiles had a weak spot for Scott's puppy eyes and could never say no to them. He was grateful Isaac had caught up to them before they'd left the house and was now walking by Stiles' side, a step behind the happy couple. Where Stuart would never admit Isaac as his brother, albeit adopted, Stiles was happy to call him family. Issac had been unlucky in his childhood, as Lord Lahey had been everything but a kind father. He'd abused and mistreated what should have been his greatest treasure, and all for the sake of misplaced hatred over losing his wife at Isaac's birth. As if it had been the baby's fault. When Stiles' father had brought a shy Isaac home, it had been one of the best days for Stiles. He had jumped at the opportunity to fuss over the younger boy as his older brother had never bothered over him, and Stiles loved every second of it. He'd laughed at Isaac's first ghost of a smile, cheered when Isaac had stopped slouching in fear of being stricken and preened when the grateful kid had embraced him at the end of the day. From that day on, he had taken it upon himself to shield Isaac from anything that might hurt him.

His steps flattered when on the path ahead, beyond Scott and Allison, his eyes landed on Lord Hale in the company of a young Lady and realized their paths were sure to cross.  
Isaac noted the change in him immediately. “Stiles, are you alright?”

“It's Lord Hale,” Stiles whispered back, leaning in his brother's space.

His brother, the bastard, smirked knowingly, “Ah! That's why you are flushed.”

“No, Isaac. That is not why I am flushed. I am flushed because the weather is hot. Too hot! For this time of year.” At Isaac's meaningful gaze, Stiles sniped back, “Shut up, Isaac.”

Lord Hale was already approaching Lady Allison and Lord Scott when Stiles' rant was over, so he had little time to compose before the man's attention was directed at him.

“Lord Stilinski,” the man offered. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Laura Hale.”

“My Lady,” Stiles offered, then proceeded, “Allow me to introduce my brother, Isaac Stilinski.”

It was brief, but there. Hale's expression morphed into one of surprise, before smoothing over into a polite smile.

Lady Laura had snatched away Isaac seconds after introductions had been made, leaving Stiles alone in the company of Lord Hale. The man had stepped alongside him and conversation had been easy and invigorating. And, within minutes, Stiles had forgotten his companion was mostly a stranger. Reflecting upon it, he might have said several words which would surely drive the gentleman away. 

***

The music of the piano filled the house, the notes under Stiles' fingers wistful. Isaac had teased him “Are you missing someone?” and disappeared off for a walk. Stuart had left the county, off to visit a paramour or temporarily ruin someone else's life, thus leaving the house in a more vivid atmosphere than generally. And, just then, a knock sounded at the door and Jordan walked in, announcing, “Lord Hale here to see you, my Lord.”

Stiles gave an eager nod, squinted when Jordan knowingly grinned and straightened out of his seat before Lord Hale walked into the room, “Lord Hale, an unexpected visit.”

“My Lord, it had to be.”

Stiles vaguely motioned for Lord Hale to take a seat. “Oh?” he inquired, intrigued.

Lord Hale eased in the sofa on his right, his rigid frame melting into the cushions. He looked at home, yet royal. Composed, but free. “Did you not say announcements had a way of allowing people to fake their ways, their emotions?”

A spark of hope flamed within Stiles, stirring close to his heart. So, Lord Hale had listened after all. “I thought you did not agree with my opinion,” he noted, a smile on his lips.

“I never said I didn't agree, Lord Stilinski.” He shifted forward, holding the younger man's gaze, dark caterpillar-like eyebrows, hazel eyes glinting, clear amusement written on them. “I told you why society considers an unannounced visitor an impolite and an unwanted one.” The man continued, “I quite agree with your take on it, I assure you.” He slid back. “See, if you had known of my visit, I would have not had the pleasure of hearing you play.”

Stiles' cheeks flamed red, his fingers twitched and latched onto his garments. His eyes strayed out the window, where he couldn't find Lord Hale and the ease with which the man carried himself. Where Stiles was away from his sinful thoughts of wanting the man bare, splayed so just for him. Hell's hounds!

“A work of yours, my Lord? Or a melody I am unfamiliar with?”

“M- mine,” he stammered a response, still not meeting the man's gaze.

The next words were soft. “It was beautiful.” Stiles whirled around, dumbfounded. “Quite striking.”

The young Lord's eyes filled with tears, he'd written that for his mother, and to have someone acknowledge the melody without knowing the story. To have Lord Hale think so well of it, it made his voice catch, thus he only nodded. 

“Will you play it for me?”

A shaky inhale, “I do not play much anymore.”

Lord Hale's brows met, expression souring, “Whyever not?”

“Stuart doesn't approve.” Stiles shrugged. “Something about hunting being much more fitting.”

“But, you disobey?”

“When I can. When I visit Scott, though he has little patience when tasked to listen.”

“I would listen an entire day if you played.” The weight of the declaration stung. 

“Another time, perhaps,” Stiles mused. Stuart had been explicit in his dislike for the Lord, though Stiles was unsure if his brother's sentiment was plainly due to Stiles' fancy or otherwise fueled. It hardly mattered. Stiles was rescued from having to answer by Isaac's perfectly timed arrival.

When he had walked Lord Hale out, managed to escape Isaac's curiosity and was at last alone, he let himself regret not being able to stand up to Stuart, the loss of his father which his brother seemed unaffected by and the inexplicable desire to run. And, he willed himself to forget Lord Hale and his bunny teeth. Nothing good ever came from pining.

***

Stuart walked through the front door at an ungodly hour, then proceeded to say the vilest things to the bellboy for making him wait at the door. His hand lifted to strike stirred Stiles into action, grasping his brother's wrist before little Jordan was the next victim of his brother's sour mood and drinking habits. He expected what followed. A dark gaze levelled on him, never stirring as everyone in the room was dismissed. It was Isaac who hesitated before Stiles assured him to retire back to bed. And, once the last doors closed and the hall quelled from the other occupants, he was being dragged up the stairs, barely keeping up and thrown into his rooms. The rustle of fabric and the clang of his brother's belt were the only warnings he received before he felt the first hit over his back. His teeth sank into the fabric of his sleeve, soaking the material in his spit, whilst Stiles tried his best to remain quiet.

“You foolish little cunt!” his brother sneered. Another punch followed, this one breaking the skin. Stiles could feel the blood as it rushed from his back, soaking through his shirt. His brother's laboured breathing provided the smell of alcohol in the room, which Stiles took in with each strike that followed. “I should have,” another hit over his shoulder blades, “you sold!” A kick to his ribs and another over his thighs.

Stuart always avoided punches where could be seen, Stiles darkly noted. “Like the common whore that you are!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks, his shirt salty on his tongue and his mind pain-addled and left without the number clinging to his brother's strikes. When Stuart stopped and buckled back up, he spat in Stiles' ear, “I could have you sold to a whorehouse to be fucked and raped day in and out, and then maybe someone will teach you to know your place.” And, the room grew quiet and Stiles finally found himself drifting into unconsciousness.

Bed-ridden for a week, he'd known of little entertainment and so the promise he'd given himself, Stiles broke. He'd written to Lord Hale, a letter never to be sent. 

_My dearest Lord Hale,_

_I can not, in the right mind, bear this life any longer. This year had seen fewer months than my back has seen lashings. So, I write these words to soothe what medicine no longer can._

_My reason says a match between us would never be, my brother would oppose much. My heart, however, has never been stirred as your kindness and intelligence and handsomeness invigorate it. I know Father would approve of you, Mother too. They'd always wanted me to marry for love and love alone. But, I fear Stuart would sell me to the highest bidder if he didn't care what society's views were on the matter. He'd told me so himself._

_So, I shall hope for you to see in me at least half of what I have discovered in you. And, maybe fortune will smile on us._

_Forever yours,_  
_Stiles_

He'd tucked the letter under the pillow, intent on placing it among his most precious possessions, just in time to avoid Isaac seeing it, avoiding endless teasing.

When Scott had burst in his room, a blinding smile, and inquired if Stiles would feel well enough to attend a small dinner party that very Friday, Stiles should have guessed his friend had extended an invitation to Lord and Lady Hale. The realization dawned to him upon standing face to face with the man and Stiles had opted to blame the residual pain under his left arm for his obliviousness. An additional confusion caused the frown creasing Lord Hale's features. He had little time to ponder over it before Lady Laura waved his arm around his. Stiles tried to contain the wince. 

“I would appreciate if you could walk me in, my Lord.”

“With pleasure.”

Lady Hale was placed between himself and Lord Hale, whose expression turned pinched after he exchanged hushed words with his sister.

“My brother tells me you were breathtaking at your debut,” Lady Laura opened. “I am sorry to have missed it.”

Lord Hale was avoiding his gaze, so Stiles turned back to Laura. “It was Stuart's instructions.”

“Ah, Lord Stuart.” Lady Laura cleared her throat. “Where is your brother tonight?”

“Gallivanting, most likely,” Lord Hale sneered under his breath. 

Lady Laura hurried, “Please, forgive -”

“No need, my Lady. I am well aware of the reputation preceding my brother.”

“Nevertheless,” she tried again.

Stiles reassured her. “It is quite alright.” And, that seemed to settle the topic. “Why don't you tell me how your debut was? I have not had the advantage of your brother sharing it with me.”

“Mine was easier, as both I and Cora were,” she trailed off mid-sentence. Lord Hale stiffened in his seat, shoulders stretching his coat.

Stiles inquired, “Uhm, Cora?” When Lord Hale shot out of his seat and thus attracted everyone's attention, before storming out of the room, Laura simply shook her head. And, Stiles knew not to ask again. He could occasionally live without an answer.

***

Firsthandedly experiencing the tension between Lord Hale and his brother had Stiles on edge. The stiffness of the Lord's shoulders spoke volumes, whilst the mocking challenge in his brother's eyes made Stiles desperate to punch his brother. Had John witnessed the exchange, Stiles was sure Stuart would have received a stern lecture, if not more. 

The first jest was provided by the older Lord Stilinski, “Have you been wasting your outings this season too, Hale?”

Stiles had expected Hale to remain quiet. He couldn't have in ages foreseen the retort the man steadily fired back, “And, you look pale, Stilinski. Have your late-night rampages finally resulted in an incurable disease?”

“Well, Lady Laura is unavailable to provide said service.”

The glass in Lord Hale's hand snapped to shreds and cluttered to the floor. The dark-haired Lord was inches away from his brother's gloating expression, posture a coiled spring and his hands balled in fists. Blood was dripping to the floor. A gravel growl, wolf-like, “Should you ever take my sisters' names in your foul mouth, you pitiable simpleton, I will personally cut off that extra pinky finger in your possession and have you eat it.” The yellow settling on Stuart's face had Stiles more than gleeful. It proved what Stiles had always believed - without a belt in his hand and a meek opponent, his brother was truly a weakling. The moron deserved to be placed as he was, insulting a young, pristine Lady to feast his need to irk.

Stuart dismissed him with a flick of a wrist. Stiles set out to find Lord Hale and see if the man was alright. He was only glad Lady Laura had chosen not to attend the dinner. His acquaintance with the Lady could have been ruined by his brother's despicable behaviour. Lord Hale was standing on the balcony, surrounded by haar of smoke. The light of the moon cast a glowing light around his figure and the mistiness of the cigarette gave the man an air of mystery which hardly anyone else could maintain so effortlessly. 

“Lord Hale,” he dared place a light touch over the man's shoulder. “Are you alright?”

The man cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing in return. They remained there, standing in proximity, with Lord Hale's warmth under his fingertips, until the cigar was put out in the closest ashtray.

Stiles returned home with an uneasy buzz under his skin, which he could not shift until dawn. Something in Lord Hale's gaze haunted him until the wee hours of the morning.

***

The gloomy weather had always bothered Stiles, in a way he could hardly manage the confinements of the mansion, and it spiked in him the desire to roam the deserted streets unchaperoned. His stroll was steady, the petrichor rich in the air, the quell peaceful. The feeling of home, what someday it had been and no longer was. The damp air reminded him of his mother's last days, of the illness which had taken her, of the brazen disrespect Stuart had shown towards her in her final hours, of his father's grief and his own inability to pacify it. 

He startled when on the path ahead he spotted two figures side by side, clearly in each other's confidence. It seemed as good a time as any to return home, but the gentleman's gait - awfully familiar - made Stiles follow the pair suit.

They seemed oblivious as he approached them, so Stiles called out as to not startle them.

“Lord Hale! Lady Hale!” The pair turned, panic in their eyes. “Oh, forgive me,” he noted, raising his hands in surrender and stepping back. “I believed you to be Lady Laura. I would not have intruded upon you, had I realized...”

The woman ducked behind Lord Hale, which was understandable, as it was evident the intention of the pair was for them to remain undetected. 

“It is alright, Lord Stilinski,” Lord Hale assured, the young woman visibly flinching at the words. “My sister and I were enjoying an uneventful walk.”

“You do seem the kind of person to enjoy the quiet, my Lord.” Stiles flushed. “Lady Cora?” he slowly inquired.

At her nod, he bowed, “A pleasure to meet you, my Lady.”, and the lady offered a hesitant smile in return, still wary of him. As she was young, she had every right to be, so he did not consider it against her. 

Lord Hale's gaze was fixed behind his shoulder, as he spoke, “Unchaperoned?”

“Of all my friends and family, I am the only one who enjoys a walk on a gloomy day, I believe. I could not persuade Isaac to join me, he much preferred the empty parlour.”

“And Lord Stuart?” Lady Cora weakly inquired, her brother's reaction thunderous, though he remained quiet.

Lord Stilinski shrugged. “Between you and me, probably drunk off his arse and in a ditch somewhere.” The girl smiled at him.

“Would you like to join us, Lord Stilinski?” the Lady wondered. Lord Hale's head snapped in her direction so quickly, Stiles feared the man would consequently pass out on them. He only seemed baffled at his sister's words.

He smiled at her, “If your brother would allow it.”

Suddenly, Stiles' walk transformed from a lonely time-consuming act to a pleasurable day out.

He smiled at Lord Hale, before asking his sister. “Tell me, my Lady. Is there something to chase your brother's scowl away?” The girl's laughter, Lord Hale's shocked, yet pleased, expression were worth the slight embarrassment he felt at having made the enquiry quite so crass.

***

When Jordan had told Stiles his brother required him in his study, Stiles had been dumbfounded. Stuart never asked for his company. Finding Lord Hale seated across his brother, rigid, but determined had been more of a shock.

“You called for me?” he hesitantly stepped into the room. Lord Hale shot out of his seat.

There was a jeering smile dotting his brother's lips. “Lord Hale wished to speak with you.” He stepped out of the room, the muttered “pathetic” ringing in the room. Stiles' heart stuttered in his chest.

Lord Hale inched forward, “I would not have asked Stuart. God knows I cannot stand to be in the same room with the man, but I had to. If this was to be possible.”

“I don't understand.”

Lord Hale struggled for words a few brief moments. “Marry me.”

Stiles stared. “I -” he wheezed for breath. “Stuart agreed?”

Lord Hale, who had just asked for his hand in marriage, smiled as he shrugged. “He said it was to be your choice.”

“I don't understand.”

“Neither do I.” A humourless laugh. “I half expected to be thrown out of the house the moment he heard what I had to say. But, I had to ask, Lord Stilinski, I had to.”

“I - we -”

Lord Hale squared his shoulders, expression pinched. “You can have time to decide. I will call upon you tomorrow or the day after -”

“No need!” He squeaked, then smiled. “I will marry you.” And, threw himself in Lord Hale's arms, making the man stumble back several steps in unprepared surprise.

The few unobstructed moments they had, Stiles was the happiest he had been since his father's passing. Stuart had to ruin it, of course. As he had made his presence known and congratulated them, Lord Hale took his leave with the promise of starting the wedding plans within the foreseeable future. He'd heard the man's horse gallop away when Stuart's breath ghosted his ear.

“You little fool, simpleton of the highest rank. He will hate you within a week. Or maybe he will see you are both worthless fags who deserve each other.” Only the prospect of marrying Derek had been enough to lighten the sharp bite of his brother's spoken thoughts. “Now get out of my study.”

Father's study, Stiles wanted to scream. Instead, he left the room wordlessly and went to inform Isaac of Lord Hale's proposal.

He smiled until sleep sunk claws in him, deep into the night.


	3. His Heart

Lord Stilinski, oh Lord Hale now, had looked breathtaking while walking down the aisle. The black velvet suit had been hugging his frame in a sinful manner, Derek’s thoughts saw it simply not to be borne. He had instead rested upon the hazel cravat circling Lord Stiles’ neck like a brand, a reminder he would soon belong to Derek alone. The proud look in Laura’s eyes as he’d taken his husband’s hand twisted sharply within his chest. He had to remember his parents and how they had envisioned nothing but happiness for their children. How much faith had failed them already was inexplicable, how little he could do for Cora was to be an everlasting regret.

The remainder of the day had passed in a blur of people offering their compliments to the couple, Laura’s radiant expression and Stuart’s revolting one, Stiles’ bright smile in spite of his brother’s sour mood. Stiles had not stopped his cheer as they danced together. It only brought an itch of insecurity under Derek’s skin, which he struggled his best to ignore.

Derek welcomed the quell which descended over once the Hale Hall emptied. Out on the terrace, he closed his eyes under the night sky and relished the fresh air. He toyed with the cloth tied around his neck and loosened it to ease his breathing.

“Is this the maze you spoke of once, husband?” Stiles' voice whispered in his ear. He startled, as he'd been so immersed in thought as to miss the man's approach. Arms locked around his waist, a cheek rested over his shoulder-blade. “Where you hid from the world?”

“Yes,” he echoed, shocked Stiles had remembered what he has once mentioned in passing.

A kiss pressed at his nape and he shivered. Derek would forever claim it was the chill of the evening what made him do so, not the allure his husband's touch possessed. “Would you like to hide there tonight? Just for a little while, with me this time.”

Derek could master no words, thus he simply nodded.

Stiles' fingers wrapped around his, gloveless, and he gripped the hand back tightly. His husband pulled him inside the maze, glancing back at him several times, readying for something before finally speaking what bothered him, “You are quiet tonight.”

“Just exhausted,” Derek lied.

“Tense, too.” And, then, he was being whirled around and shoved against a wall of green, his body covered with Stiles' lithe form, his husband's lips on his own, exploring, stripping him of every deceit. Before long, hands tugged at his pants and the younger man sank to his knees before him. “St-, Stiles, you don't have to.”

Stiles chuckled. “I know. I want to.” And, his enthusiasm proved the words correct. Not long after, Derek was with his sweat-covered back against the maze's wall, standing still, gasping the last of his orgasm away, brows furrowed and half-lidded eyes locked in a gaze with his husband's, where he stood flushed, mouth parted invitingly as if he'd not only just taken Derek's reason from him.

His bedroom was decorated per Laura's instructions. He had expressed no wish to delve in such affairs and she had been more than enthusiastic. Though Derek would never admit it to her, the room looked fetching. The soft glow of the candles descended on the canopy bed, shading the black satin curtains with golden flickers, much alike his husband’s eyes. Vanilla evaded the space, not helping his jumbled thoughts.

The slow, inquisitive movements his husband made a mere step before him grasped his attention. With eager eyes he shaped the lithe form hungrily, impatient wistful fingers yearned once more for the flesh he had held under his fingertips out in the maze. The younger man approached the windows, still inspecting. Derek supposed he wanted to acquaint himself with what he believed was to be his bedroom. If only he knew. Those supple fingers glided up the curtains, delicate wrist-twisting to move the material away and reveal the maze proudly standing under the moon’s shine. Derek’s desire stirred in his breeches. He approached the man, lined his body along Stiles and pulled the younger man closer by the hips. A battle of emotions shook through his core, but whatever uncertainty he had felt before, he pushed aside at the allure Stiles provided. Derek intended to fully lose himself in his husband. He buried his nose in the curled strands of hair under Stiles’ ear, panting open-mouthed over the pulse point, willing his knees not to buck under him. Slowly, his hand travelled the expanse of his husband’s torso until the cravat was reached. The material was soft under his fingers and gave way easily. The offending item descended the floor, as a passionate “mine” was spoken in the privacy of their bedroom.

***

Morning woke Derek from the restless slumber he had succumbed to long after sleep had overtaken Stiles. He glanced to his left at the man, only to find him haphazardly splayed under the beddings, long limbs half bare, still deeply asleep. His lips were parted and small huffs of breath slipped past them on every exhale. There was a pathway of red rash along the column on his neck moving down until covered by the white linen. He looked innocent, childlike. Almost enough to stir in Derek guilt of what was to be done. Only almost.

Derek rose slowly, dressed in the first suit he found at disposal and waited for the young lord’s awakening. He did not need to wait long, as soon the white pile of linen stirred and whiskey eyes were sleepily roaming the room until they found their settlement in Derek’s own.

“Good morning, my Lord,” Stiles softly spoke.

Derek was at a loss of words, as much as he had planned for this moment, he had no thoughts on how to move forward. He was preempted, however. There must have been some oddity which had given him away, and had made Stiles inquire, “Is something the matter?”

After a steadying breath, Derek spoke, “There is a story I wish to share with you. About my sister Cora.” The brows over those whisky eyes furrowed. Derek elaborated, “You met her, remember?”

“Yes?” a confused Stiles spoke. He stirred further, leaned against the headboard of their bed for one night freely.

“The animosity towards your brother which I have, as you have taken note already, is not without a reason.” If something, his husband’s expression turned ever more baffled then before. “There was an acquaintance established between my youngest sister and your brother. Which resulted in the vilest of affairs. Surely, you know the story.”

“Indeed, I do not. I have never heard of this.”

Unconvinced, Derek continued, “My sister was only fifteen when she was presented into society with Laura by her side. They were to be chaperoned by our uncle. He is a good man if a little too carefree. My sister Laura was too young to comprehend the unsavoury pursuits which lingered amongst men, even in the highest of society, and warn Cora off against them. I was at school at the time. And so, Cora – young and all too naïve – was left mostly to her own devices.” If Stiles knew of this, he was much practised to hide that knowledge from showing in his countenance. “She met a man, a lord, who had such delights.” An outrageous gasp reverberated from the bed, strongly reminding Derek of his own reaction when he had first heard the news. “A man, who was all charm and politeness, not much different than you.” Something cracked beneath the surface of the young lord’s expression, to make him seem almost hurt. Unperturbed, Derek continued, “She thought herself in love, and him even more so. Only to be seduced and abandoned, as if worth nothing. To be thrown out of society’s favour and learn the harsh unfairness of life at the age of fifteen.” He paused, a dark gleam in his eyes. “How old are you, husband?” The last word conveyed odiousness, as Derek spoke it.

Meek, almost whimpery, came the following, “I just turned sixteen.”

“Well, then. Not too early for you to learn the same.”

Stiles staggered out of bed, his gaze never stirring from Derek’s. With shaking hands he covered his naked body with a discarded undershirt, whispering, “I don’t understand…”

“Don’t you truly?”

Stiles’ hands rested on him, one lightly placed over his shoulder, the other cradling Derek’s cheek. “I am sorry, Derek, for what my brother has done to your sister. I know him to be an unworthy man as I know my words cannot mean much after all this time. But, believe me, I never knew of this. Father did not know of this. Should he had known, Stuart would have been obliged to keep to his promise.”

Derek rose, shrugging off the gentle touch, reminding himself what was to be done. “Do you think we needed a match? How foolish are you, Stiles?” He stood tall as he looked at his husband. “Our father made sure we were to need of nought. I am glad my sister was not married to that despicable cunt of a brother you have, for I would have sooner seen him dead. I would have duelled him and won if Peter had let me. But, much too late was all. Cora was already ruined and we were forced to watch her waste away before our eyes.” He strode forward, face but a breath away from Stiles’. “Now, it is Stuart’s turn to see your spark dim, just as my sister’s did three years ago.” He turned his back to Stiles, gazing out the window.

“What does that mean?” Derek heard footsteps, but he ignored the presence in the room. “Please, talk to me. What was the meaning of that?” A hand curled around his forearm, urging him to turn. In doing so, Derek snared the wrist of the hand on him. “Derek, please…”

As coldly as he could manage, Derek replied, “I am Lord Hale to you. Not Derek. Do you understand?”

“No!” a scream poured from Stiles’ lips, “Please, don’t!” His eyes were manic, pupils dilated. “Derek, what does that mean?”

He released the younger man from his grasp and he tumbled in a heap on the floor. Derek could not be sure if it was the intensity of the push which made Stiles give way or not, but he forced himself not to care. “What you must suspect already.” His lips twitched in an irksome smirk. “I know you are no fool. I am sure you understood what my position on the matter is.” He motioned towards a covered part of the wall, waited until Stiles’ gaze followed him. “Behind there is a door which leads to an adjoining bedroom. You are to sleep there from tonight. I do not wish to see you in this room again.”

Hands clutched at the lapels of his coat tightly and Derek could only stagger forward at the strength with which he was pulled towards Stiles. “You cannot do this, Derek!” Tear-soaked eyes locked with his, his husbands’ cheeks coloured rosy with exertion. “I swear I did not know. You cannot expect me to pay for my brother’s wrongdoings?” Lips sealed over his own, intently. “Please, please…” Another kiss.

“I can,” he stated, as he pushed the lord away from his frame. “And, I will.”

Stiles crumbled before his eyes, long neck bent and head cast toward his feet. Hands resting along his body, weightless, shaking shoulders and a harrowed, “Yes, Lord Hale.”

Derek left the room abruptly, leaving a broken-hearted husband behind – a man who seemed as if his entire world had crumpled down over him only moments prior, though Derek supposed it to be in part faked. His belief did nothing in relieving the sickening distaste which stirred in his stomach. He fumed all the way to the stables, saddled his mare and went out to seek solace in the arms of nature.


	4. His Loss

Stiles found himself on the bed in the adjoining room Derek had pointed at, completely unaware as to how he had managed to pull himself from the wreckage he’d been in after his conversation with Derek and curl under the covers. The air in the room was chilly, no fire had been lighted there, as there had probably been no instructions made by the master of the house. The prickles the coldness pitched over his cheeks helped the fever which had flared them crimson. His sobbing had mellowed in an endless rivulet, soaking the pillow. It had been ages since he’d felt this slow-witted, the latest case he recalled dating to the early years when he and Scott had managed to discover all blunders the Stilinski estate could offer. He had never before felt so deluded. To be this easily lead, as to be unseeing of the deceit in Lord Hale’s eyes. Blinded by hopes of a better future, he’d dreamed of a happy home, a husband to love and one who would love him back. The latter was clearly not to be had. 

_You little fool, simpleton of the highest rank. He will hate you within a week._ His brother’s words surged through him and Stiles could not battle the wave of sorrow which fell over him anew. It had been not a day, much less than what his brother had predicted. It took Stiles hours of tears before the exhaustion drove him to slumber.

***

It had been Boyd, Derek’s manservant, and the man’s worried expression which Stiles had come to. He’d been sent to fetch Stiles for dinner – fetch as if he were a dog. It had been the fastest Stiles had ever dressed, Boyd assisting him with inexplicable precision, one which seemed as if they had had month’s practice of that very same routine. 

When he stumbled in the dining room, his husband, both of his husband’s sisters and a little girl were already sat there. Lady Laura had an encouraging smile, Lady Cora slightly less shy than on their first meeting, the girl’s eyes roamed over his form in a confused inquiry, and Derek carried a stoic, disapproving expression, which made his throat clog. He paused a moment at the door, interest peaked at the young member of the family, and then remembered manners, “Forgive me. I’d fallen asleep.” He took his seat. “Tired, I suppose.”

Lady Laura smirked. “I can only imagine.” 

His cheeks coloured, he ducked to hide his reaction, at the same time wishing to see Derek’s. It was only when Lady Laura called his name that he looked up again. 

“Stiles, I would like to introduce your niece Natalia. Nati, this is Lord Stiles. He is uncle Derek’s husband.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Natalia spoke cheerfully. 

Stiles startled at the familiarity of her smile before he reigned in his composure and smiled back at the beaming grin she was addressing. “Likewise, my Lady.”

The questions he had to keep to himself, as eagerly as he wanted them asked. It would have to wait, and with all his impertinent impatience intact, Stiles will strive off the need until an opportunity arose.

***

There had been nothing but failed attempts at happiness in their marriage. All the reproaches sneered his way darkened one day after the other and dismissals of the harshest kind did nothing to fuel hope in Stiles. Solace was only to be found in long walks, the dusty pages of the old leather books in the Hale Library, the grandiose piano gracing the spacious gallery overlooking the house’s park. And, he dreamt of the future, imagined many ways a reconciliation might come to pass – yet, all those thoughts seemed unattainable. Music was his salvation. He’d composed more melodies in his time as a master of the house than he had ever managed in his childhood home. Most he dedicated to his husband. Some he fused with light, joyous threads, of dancing around one’s partner, of drawing them in to teasingly push them away, loyalty, trust, cheer. Others he made dark, heavy tones emphasizing the wickedness of betrayal, the sting which accompanied hurt, the loss, grief, resignation. Their courtship in comparison to their matrimony. 

Stiles was playing his last composition leaving the countless papers of new melodies scattered over the piano forgotten and was reliving the dreadful morning he’d lost his husband in an unanticipated dispute with a grimness resting upon his eyebrows. He did not hear the door of the library open, much too immersed in the melody he played by heart. Only when he was yanked away from the keys of the piano and brought face to face with his husband’s fuming expression, he became aware he was not alone.

“What do you think you are doing?” venomous were the words, spoken a breath away from his own lips.

Stiles swallowed, gaze involuntarily dropping to Derek’s lips, “C–com–composing.”

“And, the permission to do so, you obtained from who exactly?”

“I did not think I’d need it,” he replied. “Derek…”

Stiles was made aware of the mistake he’d made when at his husband’s name the grip on his arms tightened to a point of pain. He squeaked in desperation, but was met with an unrelenting temper. Ignoring the grip which was sure to bruise, hopeful he asked, “You once said you’d love to hear me play the whole day.” 

“I lied.” And so, with those words, he was released. “Your entrance in this room is forbidden from this day forth. Do you understand?”

Goosepimples covered Stiles in an instant. Eyes watering, hands shaking, he gasped. “You truly meant for me to wither away here, did you not?” When his question was not meant with an answer, he carried on, “You and my brother, Lord Hale, in other circumstances would have made the best of friends.” He bolted out the library, his notes forgotten, unneeded, and buried his tears in the loneliness of his bed. When Boyd came to ask him to dinner, he pretended not to wake.

***

As the sun drowned on the horizon, the crimson skies called for Stiles to step out into the gardens. It was the only activity he was allowed, Stiles presumed, the only activity where the resources used were just the Hale grounds. His husband’s behaviour had hurt every waking moment at first. Months of the same reprimands and dismissals had steeled Stiles, made him appear less vulnerable when inside he was shattering. He’d hoped for a loving marriage, a husband to devote himself to. Yet, as much as he tried to achieve that goal, to engage Lord Hale in conversation even a matter as simple as the weather, his husband was uninvolved in the conversation. Stiles knew one of these days he would give up on his attempts and resign himself to unending misery. At the very least he would have the conversation with Laura, the banter Cora selflessly provided, the happiness Natalia radiated. The piano in the library stood a challenge when Stiles would find the library doors open, in as much he always had to reign himself in and find the will to walk away. He never was told what had happened to his music papers and he never asked. 

“Uncle Stiles!” a shrill cry broke the evening’s quell. 

Erroneously he turned to look for the source, trying to spot a running girl, consequently miscalculating his steps and tumbling down the hill. With a loud crack and a piercing cry, he knew not whose, blackness overtook him. 

He awoke to throb in his shoulders, sharp pain in his head and weight over his right forearm. Slowly, he gazed at the source of the weight, expecting anyone from Isaac or Scott, to maybe even Natalia, only to find a warped shape quite resembling his husband. Shallow puffs of air stroked over his fingers, where they were intertwined with those of Lord Hale. Stiles could not fathom the cause for such display of affection when he had been rebutted at every turn for months, but he cared not. He still loved his husband, no matter the past, no matter the words spoken in anger and misapprehension, and if Derek was to never warm to him again, Stiles would spend this rare moment remembering the feel of his husband’s hand along with his. He ignored the pain, simply watching Lord Hale sleep, the flicker of the fire behind him, the light breathing, and he found as time passed, though not entirely gone, his pain had subdued. It was when Derek first stirred, that he closed his eyes again to spare himself if a moment longer the abject rejection he was sure to receive once the man saw he was awake. He waited till Derek shuffled away from him before groaning and opening his eyes again.

“Lord Hale,” hesitantly he spoke, as to not startle the man. Lord Hale turned to him with a swiftness which could outmatch a predator, eyes tired as if he had not rested well for days, and Stiles’ traitorous heart lurched at the thought he might have stirred at last some affection in his husband’s stony heart. His congratulations on the matter were however short-lived, as the very next moment his husband assured him he cared in no way as to inquire over Stiles’ state. “Oh, you are awake. I shall call for Dr Deaton to check on you.”

Dr Deaton had assured the household members Stiles would make a full recovery more than enough times before he was at last allowed to depart. Both of the young ladies wished Stiles a speedy recovery and excused themselves for the night, leaving the lord with his husband’s turned back. Derek looked mesmerizing next to the fireplace. The light from the fire flickered over his expression, softening his features, yet casting the rest of his form into shadow. 

“How long have I been bed-ridden?”

Derek cleared his throat but did not look his way. “A little over a week.”

The quiet drifted in then, the crackling of the fire soothing the ache blooming under his ribs. If there had been softness about Derek when he had thought Stiles asleep if it had not been imaginings of his feverous mind, all was long gone. He had been made witness of Lord Hale’s determination to make his days as unbearable as he could, yet it was the light of the fire framing his husband’s hardened expression which had, at last, made Stiles aware. Even if his husband ever burned with the desire of a sinner, loved him beyond return, he would never confess it. 

A solitary tear descended his cheek. Stiles pushed all thoughts away. He would have time to ponder over them once he was alone again. Instead, “My brother?” he asked.

Derek’s head sharply turned his way, eyes narrowed. “I wrote to Lord Stuart,” Derek assured.

Stiles shook his head a moment, swallowing, “No. Isaac?”

“I supposed Stuart would inform him.”

“You would.” And, so he closed his eyes, permitting slumber to swallow him.

Unsurprisingly, dawn brought Stiles an empty room.


End file.
